


Revenant

by drayton



Category: Oxford Time Travel Universe - Connie Willis
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5360798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drayton/pseuds/drayton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oxford, 2058.  Kivrin wants to go to 1320—and Ashencote—but not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JanLevine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanLevine/gifts).



“Absolutely not! It's completely out of the question, Kivrin, and you know it.”

I sighed internally, thinking that it was a good thing I'd closed the door to Dunworthy's office before broaching the subject. “I'm not talking about a two-week practicum,” I told him. “It's only one day, and both of us will be there with him.”

“Colin is fifteen and not a qualified historian. The Research Ethics Committee would never permit it.”

“Children younger than Colin accompany their parents on archaeological digs.” I'd done it myself, and it had been fun, in the days when Mum and Dad still got along with each other.

“But this is time travel. It's different.”

“Unreliable water, potentially hostile locals, remote locations where it may take hours or days to reach advanced medical help... sounds rather similar to me. And he's been cleared for time travel.”

“That's down to the University and its ridiculous forms,” Dunworthy said. “I haven't cleared him.”

After we returned from Ashencote, the University, horrified by the whole incident, insisted that all three of us receive counseling. Temporal displacement stress disorder, more commonly known as drop trauma, is an uncommon malady, so Colin was referred to one of the counselors on the University's list of specialists, at University expense. The evaluation form mandated by the University in a typical display of bureaucratic rigidity assumes the patient being treated is an historian and only two outcomes are possible: patients who haven't recovered from their experience remain on the grounded list and are offered further treatment, and patients who have recovered are cleared for additional time travel.

It had taken me more than two years to obtain a travel clearance, but “historian Colin Templer, age twelve, college undetermined” got his almost immediately. In effect, the University, in its eagerness to deflect negative publicity and possible legal action, had inadvertently given a child its blessing to travel anywhere in time, subject to the approval of individual Time Travel departments. Dunworthy had chosen not to share that bit of information with Colin.

“You could clear him, if you wanted. Colin adores you.”

“That is hardly relevant. Time travel is an historical research tool, not a sightseeing tour.”

“He's not a tourist. He's serious about becoming an historian. He's fairly well along in medieval Latin and English—”

“And he can drive a horse,” Dunworthy conceded, with a small smile.

“He'll be a proper historian one day, and he wants to go to the Crusades. In five years, you'll be expected to send him off to the Middle Ages by himself. Do you think you'll be able to do that?”

Dunworthy pursed his lips and studied his hands. “I'll admit it's not a prospect I relish.”

I pressed my advantage. “Wouldn't it be easier for both of you if you took him on a few brief chaperoned trips? Your approval is important to him just now. Shouldn't you teach him while you can, before he reaches a rebellious phase and no longer listens to you?”

“Colin is far too young to go on a drop.”

“On another drop,” I corrected. “He saved our lives when he was only twelve, or are you going to lie and claim you could have reached me on your own? Or that I would have made it back to the drop without you?”

Dunworthy fell silent, and I knew I'd scored a point. He turned away from me in irritation and vented his frustration at one of the bookcases. “There is absolutely no reason to believe he'd be of any use to you on this drop.”

“It's not a normal drop,” I said. “I've done several of those since the counselor cleared me for time travel, and the more I avoid going back to Ashencote, the more I think about it.”

He wheeled around and gave me his most intimidating glare. “You will _not_ go back there and attempt to warn anyone, with or without Colin.”

I could feel myself becoming cross. “And who, exactly, would I warn in 1320? The children haven't been born yet, Roche hasn't been born, and Eliwys is at most a toddler living God knows where. The manor belonged to her husband's family, and I never met the husband. The only person there in 1320 that I knew in 1348 will be Imeyne, and I detest her. Warning people isn't the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“To see it before everything went wrong. To get used to the idea of Ashencote, so I can—”

“Make a misbegotten and doomed attempt to change what can't be changed.” Although Dunworthy's words were dismissive, his voice had a wistful edge, and I wondered what he'd tried and failed to change.

“No,” I said, suddenly close to tears, “so I can bury Roche. Some day. I don't think I'm ready for that yet, but I can just about manage 1320. But not alone.”

“Kivrin Elisabeth,” he said with exasperated fondness, and drew me close.

It wasn't the response I'd been angling for, but Dunworthy's hugs are rare and not to be despised. I've known him since I was seventeen, and feel closer to him than my own father. Which, since I still refer to Dunworthy as “Mr. Dunworthy”, says something about the state of filial affection in my family.

Above my head, a quiet voice said firmly, “The answer is still no. I will accompany you, but not during the height of their influenza epidemic, nor in the dead of winter. There are limits better not tested.”

Which likely meant he was still wrestling with his own nightmares. “Colin, too,” I said. “It won't be right without him, and one uneventful summer day in 1320 is no more hazardous than the things he gets up to at school. Or here, left to his own devices.”

“No,” Dunworthy repeated, but I could sense he was wavering.

  


The haggling began the next day.

The first thing Dunworthy said when I got to his office was, “I think it would be best to target a different year for the drop. In 1320, England was still recovering from famine induced by the bad harvests of 1315 to 1317. We only chose it originally because you were going for the Christmas holidays, and that winter was an unusually mild one.”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, wondering if he were about to suggest a date so far in the past that I wouldn't run the risk of meeting Imeyne.

“1309 or 1310, perhaps. The village will have had time to adjust to losses from the smallpox outbreak of 1305 and the skirmishes between England and Scotland would have little effect on daily life in Oxfordshire.”

“1309, then,” I said. “But not at the very beginning or end of the year. The Thames was so frozen in midwinter they lit bonfires on the ice in London. And not high summer or early autumn, either, I think, unless you fancy being appropriated by an overzealous reeve to bring in the harvest.”

Dunworthy hesitated, then said, “Perhaps St. Frideswide's Day. In October.”

“The fair,” I said, wondering if Dunworthy was suggesting what I thought he was. In medieval times, St. Frideswide's Priory in Oxford had held the king's franchise to host an annual fair.

He nodded. “Six days of merchants, entertainers, and fairgoers of various classes from all over Oxfordshire. Also prostitutes, cutpurses, crying children, and wayward livestock. In short, an excellent place to see a cross-section of medieval England.”

“You're going to do it,” I said softly. “You'll let him come.”

“ _If_ his mother agrees. If you'll agree to help me keep a close eye on him. And Colin himself will need to agree to a number of strictures. At the first hint of noncompliance, we'll return to 2058. You said you wouldn't need much time in Ashencote.”

“I won't. I think if I'm going to react badly, it will more or less happen straight away,” I said.

“If we went through early in the morning, we'd have time to visit Ashencote and attend the fair.”

I thought about it, then said, “I'd rather do it the other way 'round. That way, we'll see Oxford whether or not I react badly to Ashencote.”

“Are you certain you're ready for this?” he said, looking at me intently.

I shrugged. “The fact that I'm even considering it means that it's time to try.”

He nodded soberly, and we began hashing out a cover story for the three of us. After some discussion, we decided that Dunworthy would travel as a well-to-do apothecary, prosperous enough to ride a decent horse, but not so rich that traveling without a retinue of servants would be out of the question. I suggested having Colin pose as a servant, but Dunworthy was reluctant to make Colin vulnerable by consigning him to a low-status role. We compromised by making Colin his nephew and apprentice, a role well-suited to Colin's age that also afforded him Dunworthy's protection. I'd be going as a _medica_ , and Dunworthy's widowed daughter.

  


Much had changed since my first drop to Ashencote. For starters, the net had been upgraded to increase its cargo capacity. In 2054, we'd been so close to the limit that the baggage in my smashed-up wagon had been sent through completely empty. Time Travel had always kept a small stable of specially-bred horses for the training of historians, but now it was possible to send a horse and rider through simultaneously. I'd already done two drops on horseback, and Dunworthy had quickly agreed that we'd want mounts for the trip from Ashencote to Oxford.

I contacted Stables and made the necessary arrangements for our horses and gear, while Dunworthy went back and forth with Wardrobe on the subject of appropriate clothing. I'd already given Wardrobe extensive feedback based on what I'd observed during my drops, but had learned the hard way that the quality of costumes varied wildly depending on which tech you got and how besotted they were with their own conceptions of appropriate period clothing. I still remembered the arguments I'd had with Wardrobe before my first mounted drop.

“Horseback riding?” the tech had said. “Is Stables providing the sidesaddle or do we need to coordinate with Props?”

“I'm riding astride,” I'd said. “Sidesaddles are from a later era, and in any case, I'm going as a _medica_ , not a highborn lady.”

“A—?”

“A physician of sorts, although _medicas_ used herbal remedies and practical care, while the doctors of the period were still playing silly buggers with humors and astrological charts.”

“So you'll need split skirts,” the tech had told me.

“No.”

“But if you're riding astride—”

“Ordinary skirts were full enough for women to gather and sit on part of them while riding. Most women didn't use split skirts in this time period, and I'm not going to spend ten minutes unlacing every time I want to have a pee. All I need are some leggings, as I'll be doing a lot of riding.”

“But—” the tech had objected, so I'd played my trump card.

“Which one of us has actually been there and seen what women are wearing?”

The tech had eventually yielded with bad grace, but it had taken far more of my time than it should have. Remembering that, I offered to intervene on Dunworthy's behalf, since the men's costumes were taking a surprisingly long time to arrange, but he waved me off.

After we'd made nearly all of the necessary preparations, Dunworthy approached Deirdre Templer, who gave her consent a little too readily for Dunworthy's liking. It wasn't clear to me whether she was under the mistaken impression that we regularly took teenagers time-traveling or was merely indifferent to how Colin spent his time as long as he wasn't underfoot in London, but Dunworthy was decidedly cross for a few days after speaking to her.

In contrast, Colin was practically vibrating with excitement when he turned up for the summer vac. “Did Mum have it right?” he asked me, when I met him at the Tube station. “I'm going on assignment?”

“You'll be coming with me and Mr. Dunworthy on a short drop to the fourteenth century _if_ you agree to his terms. He's been very out of sorts recently, so I wouldn't test his patience.”

“I won't,” Colin promised, and indeed, he was suspiciously well-behaved for the next few days. He wasn't even taken aback by Dunworthy's insistence that the three of us should only speak Medieval English to one another. He followed attentively as we briefed him on medieval Oxford and fairs and the roads we'd be taking.

As I'd half-expected, the sticking point was the clothing. “No one could possibly need all of this,” Colin complained when he was given his costume. “Won't it only be October?”

“An October during the Little Ice Age,” I said, “and this is what the contemps will be wearing.”

I could understand his skepticism. Underneath everything, he was wearing a pair of linen braies, loose breeches that reached nearly to his knees and were gathered at the waist by a narrow breech belt. Over that, he wore a linen shirt and hosen, separate stockings made of woven wool lined with linen that went up the length of his legs. The points of his hosen were tied at the hip to his pourpoint, a short doublet originally meant to provide padding underneath armor. Over all of that, he wore a thick calf-length tunic, an outer belt supporting a small dagger and a purse to make up for the tunic's lack of pockets, leather leggings over the hosen for riding, a cloak, a hood, and short soft boots. I didn't have the heart to tell him that he'd likely also need pattens, wooden overshoes strapped to his feet to keep the mud off his boots.

“But—” he protested.

“Colin,” Dunworthy's voice cut in sharply, “we have discussed this. At some length.”

“But it's hot.”

“Yes,” Dunworthy said. “It is. And you will wear it, or else remain behind.”

At that, Colin subsided unhappily, even though we wore our costumes for several days to get used to them.

  


By the day of the drop, Colin had rediscovered his eagerness and was nearly bouncing off the walls of the lab. He wanted to be the first one to go through, but Dunworthy insisted on taking the lead. As Dunworthy led his horse to the platform, he paused in front of Colin and said, “Everything as agreed.” After receiving a solemn nod from Colin, Dunworthy got into position, nodded at Badri, and vanished into the net.

“You can go next,” I said. “Colin?”

“I know,” he said. “Don't muck it up.”

“No. Well, yes, but what I was going to say is remember that your horse may be unsettled by the drop.”

Colin nodded, just before he and his horse disappeared, and then it was my turn.

 _You can do this_ , I told myself, as I led my horse into position. _You must do this_. Badri acknowledged my uncertain nod with a reassuring smile.

And I was there.

I realized with a start that some part of me had expected this drop to be different, but all I saw was an unremarkable clearing in a wood. In the dimness of early dawn, shadows lay deeply on the forest, but there was no sense of foreboding. As I stood there, soothing my horse and acclimating to my surroundings, the birds who'd doubtless been startled into silence by our arrival began singing.

After checking a locater concealed inside his cloak brooch, Dunworthy mounted his horse and began leading the way down a narrow path. I found myself wondering if this were the same clearing where I'd arrived in 2054. If so, the lack of snow made everything look different, although the heavy frost lying on the drifts of fallen leaves told me winter was not far off.

As we came out onto the road, I realized it was the same clearing. And there was the place where Roche's donkey had balked. And over those hills...

“All right then, Kivrin?” Colin said.

I nodded silently, although I wasn't sure I was all right. I wasn't having a full-blown panic attack, but memories of Agnes and Rosemund and Roche, living and dying and dead, were crawling up my throat until I wanted to cry out, as if screaming could make the memories stop. Dunworthy kneed his horse to come alongside me, as I told myself, _They are gone. Past saving, but not past remembering. They are gone_. _Nothing you say or do here can_ _harm_ _them._

“Kivrin,” Dunworthy said quietly.

With a shuddering breath, I wrested myself back from the abyss. “A bad moment,” I admitted shakily, “but it's gone now.”

“You're sure,” he persisted, with a gentleness that nearly undid me. For a man who can be intimidating and waspish when annoyed, Dunworthy is surprisingly tender at times.

“Yes,” I said, and I was. “Let's go on.”

“Oxford's that way,” he said, gesturing. “Why don't you lead? I'll try to keep Colin from riding you down.”

I set off, with Colin close behind. It occurred to me that most contemps would have put a male rider in front, to be the first to encounter any hazards that lay on the road. Dunworthy likely wanted to keep an eye on me from behind, but I was reassured by his unspoken declaration that Colin was the one most in need of protection.

The morning was cold, so I was glad of all the layers I'd worn, even the warm cloak I'd only been able to tolerate for brief periods in Oxford. Behind me, Colin's eager chatter was punctuated with complaints about his clothing, which he still found restrictive. He wanted to go faster, too, and drew a sharp reprimand from Dunworthy after his horse nearly bumped mine.

We'd changed our target year from 1309 to 1310 after reviewing historical accounts of the weather. As we'd hoped, the roads were firm and dry, which made for easy going. The sun had just risen fully when Dunworthy called for a halt. We dismounted near a small stream, and I watered the horses while Dunworthy took Colin aside. I couldn't make out the words, but from what I could see of Dunworthy's gestures and Colin's face, some sort of ultimatum was being handed out.

When they returned a few minutes later, Dunworthy said, “Now that the light's good, we'll take things a bit faster for a while. But only a while,” he added, looking at Colin. “We'll pull back to a walk when we encounter more travelers.”

The road had widened, so Dunworthy and Colin rode side by side while I brought up the rear. Our horses would have looked strange to most modern eyes: too small, too scruffy, and with a curious ambling gait, but they were prized in this era as comfortable mounts for long journeys. We slowed our pace as we began to pass an occasional cart and people on foot. I wondered where they'd come from and if they'd set off for the fair in full darkness.

Colin was restless, so Dunworthy occupied his attention by quizzing him about medieval Oxford, switching around between English, Latin, and French. I let my thoughts drift, while Colin explained that some of Oxford's colleges had already been founded, and the students were treated like clerics, which meant they answered to a religious court instead of falling under the jurisdiction of the town.

Dunworthy's questioning was so reminiscent of my father's that I gradually tuned out Colin's recitation about Oxford's decline as a trade center and the rising conflict between town and gown. Instead, I thought of my father quizzing me about the history of whichever site we were traveling to. As an archaeologist, he'd always been focused on buildings, while Mum had been more interested in the detritus of everyday life.

When I was young, I'd been eager to show off my knowledge to them, and I'd basked in my parents' praise when I answered correctly. Looking back on those days now, I mostly remembered my father's open disappointment when I got an answer wrong. At the time, I'd taken his disapproval for granted, but being taught by Dunworthy had altered my expectations. He'd never criticized my ignorance nor expected a faultless performance. To him, knowledge was something to be enjoyed and shared and used, not a basis for judging someone as worthy of attention.

I thought about the quarrels I'd had with Mum and Dad, especially Dad, over my decision to become a practical historian. They were already divorced by then, and each blamed the other for my career choice. In their eyes, time travel was a cheat: the real work was done in the present, deducing what had gone before, and simply going to observe what had actually happened was lazy. The more I'd progressed in my education as an historian, the more I'd wondered what could possibly be lazy about doing all the research needed to be properly prepared for a drop.

Both of them were out of the country, at different sites, the Christmas I went on my practicum. Mum didn't even know I'd been until two months after my return. Dad heard about it almost at once, but was jealous, of all things, about the attention my drop had received. Neither of them understood that my trip to Ashencote had been terrible as well as wonderful, and that I hadn't gone for the purpose of becoming famous. I'd tried not to be hurt by it, but there'd been no getting around the realization that a twelve-year-old I'd only just met seemed to understand me better than my own parents. Since then, I'd scarcely spoken to them at all.

I came back to my surroundings as our progress was checked by a flock of sheep swarming the road. “We're nearly there,” Dunworthy told me with a questioning look, which meant he'd noticed my mental absence.

“Good,” I said. He raised an eyebrow, so I explained, “Not Roche. My parents.”

“Ah.” He turned to Colin, and said, “History of St. Frideswide's. In French.”

Colin glanced at me briefly, as if wondering why I'd been thinking about my parents and whether he should be concerned about it, before reeling off, “Founded by Frideswide, a Mercian princess, in the seventh century. The abbey was destroyed during the St. Brice's Day massacre in 1002, when the church was burned in an attempt to drive out Danes who'd taken sanctuary there. Currently, there's a monastery for Augustinian canons on the site. Part of _that_ church was demolished when Cardinal Wolsey dissolved the monastery in 1525; the rest of it's now Christ Church Cathedral.” He finished with a cheeky grin. “So we've actually been there already.”

I smiled. “Yes, but I daresay you'll have difficulty recognizing it.”

“And no Balliol.”

“The college, yes; the buildings we're familiar with, no.”

Bells tolled the hour as we approached, and I immediately thought of Roche. It had taken months in modern-day Oxford before I could hear the city bells without feeling the hair on the back of my neck stand up. That sensation had returned during my first drop, post-Ashencote, but in time I'd got over it and had assumed that reaction was behind me forever. Apparently not. I wondered if I'd always react that way when visiting medieval Oxford, then wondered whether Roche had ever been here, and realized how little I knew about him. His parents must be alive somewhere in 1310, but where? Had he ever spoken about his family, during the long hours we'd spent together, tending the dying? I felt as if anything I might once have known about him had been overwhelmed by the knowledge that Roche was waiting for me, unburied.

By now, we were entering Oxford itself, and abandoned casual conversation in favor of devoting our attention to not becoming separated in the press of people flowing into the city. I saw tantalizing hints of the Oxford I knew as we made our way to the priory, although much of it looked like other medieval towns I'd visited. As we'd foreseen, it was crowded at the priory: there was provision to stable our horses for the day, but it was a good thing we hadn't been hoping to stay the night.

I'd half-expected Dunworthy to take Colin aside for a last-minute lecture, but he merely put an arm around his shoulders for a moment and said, “Stay close. If we become separated, return to the priory.”

“The priory?” Colin echoed. “Why here?”

“Because a large number of people can tell you where it is if you can't find it on your own. And because the Prior's responsible for the peace during the fair. The Mayor's handed over the keys of the city for a week.”

Colin looked at him in disbelief, so Dunworthy said, “Yes, literally. They've likely hired the town bailiffs and some steady men to patrol the fair and keep any mischief from getting out of hand.” He didn't add that we'd researched 1310 and there hadn't been any notable disturbances during the fair this year. A lot could go wrong that wouldn't find its way into the historical record.

  


I'd wondered how Colin would react to a medieval fair. Compared to the diversions of modern-day London, it didn't have much to recommend it, unless you were an historian. Any lingering doubts I'd had about Colin's vocation evaporated within minutes of our arrival.

I'd been worried about two things: that he might not be that interested in the reality of an historical period, or, paradoxically, that he might be _too_ interested. Instead of looking bored or jaded, he was staring at all of it, wide-eyed, as if he couldn't take it in fast enough. Despite his obvious fascination, though, he kept glancing aside quickly to be sure he was still with us. Good. He was clearly engaged with what was happening around him, but not so much that he'd forgotten Dunworthy's instructions. I doubt he would have been so conscientious as a twelve-year-old, but he'd had three years' worth of experience to teach him when it was important to obey Dunworthy.

I exchanged a pleased look with Dunworthy and saw that instead of openly gawking at everything, like Colin, he was showing the sort of polite interest one might expect from a well-traveled contemp. I was impressed by his reserve, as he'd never visited this era before. Or had he? Not all of the records from the early days of Time Travel were publicly available. I'd seen logs of drop coordinates, but they only went back as far as Dunworthy's earliest days as a don. He might have gone anywhere, done anything, before that.

“Not your first fair, is it?” I said, as Colin paused to watch a juggler.

“Not my first,” he admitted, “although it is my earliest.”

“By how much?” I challenged, but he smiled without answering.

“What about some food?” Colin said, even though he'd been snacking from his saddlebag on the way to Oxford.

Dunworthy nodded, so we followed our noses in the direction of some cook-stalls. It took us a while to get there, with so many people milling around and children running about everywhere. A goose had escaped its pen and was snapping at people as it evaded a red-faced servant intent on capturing it. A heavyset merchant five feet in front of us stopped suddenly, firmly grasping the wrist of a young man who'd been intent on stealing his purse. They began wrangling as the cutpurse tried to wrench free, knocking into bystanders as they lurched back and forth, until some men from the priory arrived to take charge of the would-be thief.

We bought some pies—fish with vegetables, and pears with honey—and strolled on, pausing to admire a pair of acrobats, before reaching an edge of the fair, where livestock was penned and two men were haggling over the price of a mule. Just ahead, I could see a knot of men in a circle, cheering and cursing. Colin quickened his pace, but Dunworthy put out a restraining hand and said, “No.”

Colin looked at the men and then back at Dunworthy. “Why?”

“It's a cock-fight. Either that, or a dog-fight. I'd rather you didn't see it, and those men might be drunk and easily prone to violence.”

“Drunk? It isn't even lunch-time. And I've seen horrible things before,” Colin protested, but just then, there was a triumphant roar and the circle parted enough to see a bloodied cock in its death throes. To his credit, Colin's facial expression didn't change, but his shoulders rounded slightly, as if he were trying to fold himself up smaller. I'd seen him do that before, when his mother was being worse than usual.

Dunworthy must have noticed it, too, because he placed a hand on the back of Colin's neck, squeezing gently as he nudged him in a different direction, away from the cock-fight.

“Why?” Colin said quietly, as we walked past some pigs rooting unconcernedly, mere yards from the place where another cock-fight was already beginning. “Why enjoy something so cruel?”

“Think about some of your vids,” Dunworthy said.

“But that's different. That's _pretend_. No one actually gets hurt.”

“Roosters are livestock, not pets,” I reminded him. “You've never had to wring a bird's neck or chop its head off.” _Yet_ , I added. I'd cried over my first chicken, although I could wring a neck now without giving it a second thought.

“Every generation, every culture, has its barbarities,” Dunworthy told him. “There's nothing civilized about pinpoint bombs.”

Colin went quiet, as if trying to sort it out, but perked up a bit after we stopped to buy cups of ale. The acrobats we'd seen earlier turned out to be part of an acting troupe and we wandered over to watch them give a brief play about the life of St. Frideswide. Although the play was careful to show respect to Frideswide herself, there was a good bit of slapstick involving a pig that surely wasn't part of the Church's approved story. An actor dressed in all-enveloping rags and carrying a leper's clapper approached Frideswide to beg a healing kiss in the name of Christ. The crowd laughed and cheered as Frideswide obliged him, then the leper threw off his rags to reveal himself as a handsome young man now glowing with health, ending the play.

After that, we went along the stalls looking at the goods for sale: wine, spices, ribbons, religious medals, a variety of medicines and herbs, buttons, linen thread, embroidery silks, beeswax candles, saddles and harness, even a tiny bookstall which also sold parchment, quills, ink, and fine sand for blotting. Dunworthy paused reverently to inspect a manuscript, Colin at his side, while I moved a little ahead to survey the fabric stalls.

I'd spent a lot of time on my drops paying careful attention to what people of different classes were wearing, not just the types of garments but variations in the quality of cloth and dyes. Until my first drop, I hadn't truly understood how much fabric varied from the poor to the rich, and from everyday usage to fancy wear. I was admiring some linen so finely woven it would be ideal for a rich man's shirt when I heard a woman at the next stall raise her voice to complain stridently about the price of wool.

I glanced over to see what all the fuss was about, and realized I was looking at Imeyne.

 


	2. Chapter 2

If I hadn't heard her voice, I never would have believed it was her. Imeyne was young, and her face in repose must have been quite beautiful. At the moment, though, it was spoiled by a sour expression as she divided her attention between abusing the cloth merchant and berating a servant unhappily trailing in her wake. I edged away from the scene she was causing, half-afraid she'd sense the intensity of my stare, and promptly backed into a man who proved to be her husband.

“Clotaire,” Imeyne hissed, as he apologized for a collision that had been entirely my fault, “where have you been? Straying where you shouldn't, no doubt.” Her eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze to me.

I took a step backward, not wishing to interact with Imeyne in any way. In 1348, she'd been quick to assume I was an adulteress. Did she suspect every woman she encountered of wanton behavior? If so, was that down to her general unpleasantness, or was she projecting her own infidelity onto everyone else? Or, worse yet, had she half-remembered my face from this encounter?

“Daughter, is all well? We missed you,” Dunworthy said, coming up to take my elbow.

I turned to him gratefully. “Yes, Father. I was thinking of purchasing some wool for your new cloak, but I've seen better prices at home.”

I'd hoped that would set off a fresh round of argument between Imeyne and the hapless merchant, but her ire was still focused on her husband. Did she have reason to suspect him, or was she merely eager to start an argument?

Dunworthy eased me away, saying, “Your cousin is hungry.”

I saw Colin hovering anxiously nearby and forced a laugh. “Again?”

Imeyne and Clotaire were quarreling in earnest as we walked away. I wondered why they didn't think it beneath them to squabble so publicly, but perhaps being lord and lady of a nearby manor, however modest, meant they cared nothing for the opinions of common riffraff, like merchants. They reminded me uncomfortably of my own parents, who'd sometimes indulged in screeching matches at the dig site, oblivious to the presence of the workers—or their daughter.

While Colin was buying candied walnuts, I debated whether or not to tell Dunworthy I'd just seen Imeyne. I decided against it, as it would only increase his apprehension that I might try to alter history, like Breithart in 2029 or Krogh in 2038. Both of them had failed miserably, and Krogh had died in the attempt. To my shame, I wasn't even tempted to warn Imeyne about the fate that awaited her and her family.

After Colin finished his snack, we returned to the fabric stalls, as I truly wanted to make a brief survey of the dyes and weaves on display. Mercifully, Imeyne and Clotaire had taken their argument elsewhere. Under the pretense of searching out fabric for a new cloak, I looked over the wool selection, while Colin and Dunworthy amused themselves just across the way, looking at leather belts and boots. I was so intent on my task that I'd tuned out the background noise of the fair, until I heard a loud male voice nearby.

“Too expensive, and most of them have the pox, besides. Give me a bored wife any day. Like this one.”

Someone grabbed my arm roughly from behind, and spun me around. I found myself staring up at a leering, drunken youth a few years older than Colin. “Hello, lovely,” he said, leaning in close enough for me to smell his foul breath. “How about a kiss? Or something sweeter?”

Perhaps it was the voice that clued me in, but I was startled to recognize a pimply de-bloated version of Sir Bloet, Rosemund's intended. The outrage I'd felt on her behalf swelled within me. Acting on impulse, I said, “Piss off, turd-breath,” while kneeing him sharply in the groin.

It was only after he'd doubled over abruptly and I'd given his instep a good stomping that I found myself wondering whether a respectable medieval woman would have gone on the attack. Judging by the laughter of Bloet's companions, though, I hadn't shocked them.

Dunworthy appeared at my side, with Colin trailing close behind. “Well, Daughter, I'd thought to assist you, but I see you've not lost your skill at dispensing with common louts.” A small crowd of onlookers was gathering around us. To them, Dunworthy doubtless sounded amused and contemptuous, but I could hear the note of strain in his voice.

“I'm not common!” Bloet said in outrage, then swore at Dunworthy in Latin, as if to prove his elevated status.

Dunworthy readily replied in kind, expressing a sentiment far coarser than anything I'd ever heard him say in English. Colin gasped slightly, then sniggered, while Bloet's companions and a few of the onlookers looked impressed. The amusement in Dunworthy's voice changed to chilly disdain. “Go home, boy. You're not old enough to be out without a nurse.”

Bloet's companions eyed Dunworthy uneasily, and one of them drew Bloet back, saying, “Come away; let's find something else to drink.”

At first, I thought he'd comply, but then one of the onlookers said, “Go on, then; naught harmed but your pride. And whatever's left between your legs,” which made the crowd laugh.

At that, Bloet quickly shook off his friend's arm, drew a dagger, and rushed at Dunworthy.

I think Dunworthy would have been ready for him. He clearly remembered the prickly pride of young men or he wouldn't have mocked him as he had, to gain the support of the crowd. He certainly hadn't been fool enough to look away from Bloet.

He hadn't reckoned, though, with the heedless valor of young men. As Bloet lunged forward, Colin thrust himself between them. I realized what would happen a second before it did, and threw myself at Colin's knees as he moved, bringing him down just as Bloet struck.

Colin and I fell in a tangle. A dagger dropped to the ground nearby as someone shrieked above me. Glancing up, I saw that Dunworthy had bent Bloet's wrist back at awkward angle. Two of the onlookers took a firm grasp on Bloet's arms and Dunworthy released him.

“Colin? How bad is it?” Dunworthy asked, kneeling beside us as I tugged my skirts free of Colin's legs.

Colin glanced down at a small stain on the front his tunic and vaguely said, “I'm bleeding,” as he clutched his side. He made as if to rise, but I pressed him down into a semi-reclining position, with his back supported by Dunworthy.

“Help me with his tunic,” I said, and between the three of us, we got it pulled up and over Colin's head. Colin's face had gone pale underneath its usual ruddiness. The stain on his pourpoint was larger than the one on his tunic, and I fumbled with the lacing for a moment before Dunworthy said, “Cut them. We'll buy new laces.”

I took out my eating knife and cut the laces tying Colin's left hose to the pourpoint, then carefully slit the lacing holding the pourpoint closed in front. I tugged at his shirt, and Colin took his hands away so I could see the wound. There was a gash skittering along the left side of Colin's chest. In one place, it was deep enough to expose a rib, but I was relieved to see Bloet's dagger hadn't done worse damage. “This will need to be stitched,” I said to an anxious-looking Dunworthy, “but it's not serious.”

I hastily unpinned my veil, and ripped a few narrow strips from it. After folding the remnant of the veil, I placed it over the deepest part of the wound. While Dunworthy held the makeshift bandage in place, I used the strips of linen to bind the pourpoint firmly against Colin's side.

The crowd parted with a ripple, as a man came up to see the cause of the disturbance. “I'm Gilbert Norreys, a bailiff for Oxford. I don't know you,” he said, looking down at Colin resting in Dunworthy's arms, “but I do know you,” he said, turning to Bloet with a scowl. “What is it this time? Drowned your wits again?”

“My father—” Bloet began impatiently.

“Is not here, and likely won't appreciate another fine weighing his purse,” the bailiff said. “Ah, Ranulf; quick thinking,” he said to a man hurrying forward with a wide plank. “Help these people get their boy to the priory. I can question them there after he's been seen to.”

Ranulf and Dunworthy carefully shifted Colin onto the plank, ignoring his protests that he was perfectly capable of walking. As we left, I could hear Norreys asking the crowd about what had happened.

Someone must have run ahead to the priory, because the hospitaller met us at the gate, saying, “The infirmary's this way.”

“No need,” Dunworthy replied hastily. “It's not a deep wound, and we have the skill and the means to tend his hurts. All we need is a quiet place, water, and our saddlebags.”

“The private rooms have been taken, but you're welcome to a corner of the main guest hall. It'll be private enough, with everyone out at the fair.”

By the time we'd settled a grumbling Colin on a pallet in the guest hall, one servant had fetched a ewer of water while another had brought our saddlebags. I rummaged through them, taking out supplies, and found a lozenge to purify the water while Dunworthy knelt on the far side of Colin, using his body to conceal my actions from servants passing through the near-deserted hall.

I was reminded of the manor hall at Ashencote, of the long, fruitless hours I'd spent tending the bishop's clerk and Rosemund and Agnes and...

I shook my head violently, as if the physical action could dislodge unwelcome thoughts. Colin looked up at me questioningly and I said, “Bad memories. Here, drink this. It'll help with the pain.”

Dunworthy helped him sit up enough to choke down a little poppy syrup, then laid him down again while I rubbed my hands with an antiseptic paste, reminding myself that I'd done this before, although not on someone dear to me. I found myself wishing we could have risked bringing a pair of sterile gloves, but they would have been impossible to explain. Taking out some linen, I did my best to clean the wound. I was relieved to see the bleeding had slowed to a steady trickle. Colin hissed when I poured a small amount of strong wine into the cut, but he didn't cry out. My hands were trembling as I reached for the suture kit.

“I can do it,” Dunworthy said quietly.

“I'll manage,” I said, and cleaned my hands again before setting to work.

I looked down at Colin, to judge if I'd given him enough poppy syrup. He grinned at me lazily. “Worst day of my life.”

“Oh?” Dunworthy said, as I tentatively began the first stitch. Colin didn't flinch, to my relief. “Getting stabbed not your idea of fun?”

“The knife wasn't so bad,” he said. “The part I didn't like was lying there in front of a crowd in my Y-fronts.”

I snickered, which is probably what Colin had intended. “They're not Y-fronts, they're braies. And if this were haying-time, you'd likely be working in the fields wearing nothing else.”

“Necrotic,” he murmured sleepily. “Why I am not dead?”

“Partly Kivrin,” Dunworthy said, “and partly that padded doublet you've been whingeing about all morning.”

“Pore point,” Colin said. “Pure paint. Poor—”

“Pourpoint,” I said. “Get some rest.”

Colin closed his eyes for a moment, and I thought he'd drifted off, but then he opened his eyes again and looked muzzily at Dunworthy. “Would you have done it?”

“Absolutely,” Dunworthy said.

“Thought so. You're evil,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

“You threatened him?” I said. “With what?”

“I _informed_ him,” Dunworthy said virtuously. “I told him he would not be coming on this trip unless he agreed to wear the pourpoint at all times, and that if he went back on our agreement, he'd be grounded until he was twenty-five. No excuses. No exceptions.”

Dunworthy didn't say the words, “from time travel,” but I heard them all the same. “Twenty-five? You _are_ evil.”

“And he's alive, so all of the time I spent nagging Wardrobe to make the pourpoint more puncture-resistant than ordinary linen was not wasted.”

“What?”

“The fabric was sprayed with a polymer,” Dunworthy said in a low voice. “I convinced Wardrobe that we could pass it off as a special wax meant to make the fabric moisture-resistant.”

I heard a small gasp, and looked up. It was Norreys.

“I've never seen a wound sewn up quite that way.”

Oh, dear. I'd hoped no one would see me using a forceps and needle holder to place individual stitches. It had taken me months to get the Research Committee to clear the contents of my medical kit, and my suturing supplies had been among the most contentious items. The tools had been custom-made to fit my hands and look as if they might have been wrought by contemps.

“My daughter Katherine is a _medica_ , like her mother, rest her soul. We lived in Salerno for a time,” Dunworthy said smoothly, as if everyone in Italy stitched wounds that way. “I'm James Dunn, an apothecary. Colin here is my nephew and apprentice.”

“Tell me what happened in the market,” he said, pulling up a stool.

“It began with me,” I said. “We were at the fair, looking at things, when Bloet grabbed me by the arm.”

“You know him?” Norreys said, sounding confused.

_Damn_. “No. I heard others use his name,” I said quickly. “He grabbed me, and wanted a kiss.” 

“That's not all he wanted,” Colin slurred. He smiled without opening his eyes and said, “You kicked him in the bollocks.”

“Kneed, actually,” I told Norreys, as I finished the last stitch. “And I stomped on his foot. Then my father came over to discourage him. Bloet insulted Father and Father insulted him. Bloet was turning to go when someone in the crowd mocked him, then he turned back and pulled a dagger.”

“And attacked your cousin?”

“Not on purpose, I think.”

“He was going to attack Uncle,” Colin said. “So I stopped him.”

“He wouldn't have succeeded,” Dunworthy said. Colin carefully rolled to one side to stare at Dunworthy in open disbelief. “He would not have,” Dunworthy repeated with quiet intensity, “and you will not attempt to protect me in that fashion, ever again. You would not like the consequences.”

If Colin had been less drowsy, he likely would have argued, but he settled for making a rude noise. Dunworthy gently cuffed the side of his head.

Norreys turned to Dunworthy. “It's lucky there wasn't room to draw a sword. Bloet says you've sprained his wrist.”

“How unfortunate. I meant to break it.”

Norreys ducked his head to hide a grin. “Bloet's a scholar, so he's the Chancellor's to deal with.”

“And very little will be done,” Dunworthy concluded.

Norreys shrugged. “His family has money, and enough influence that this will be seen as brawling and not attempted murder. He'll be fined for causing a drunken disturbance, but I wouldn't expect more, unless the Chancellor's tired of seeing him. Perhaps his father will decide to stop throwing good money after bad, and send him off to a war to get some sense knocked into him. Any road, I have enough witnesses that there's no need for you to stay on in Oxford.”

“We only meant to come for the day,” Dunworthy said. “We'll be on our way to London as soon as Colin's fit to travel; perhaps even today.”

“That would be best,” Norreys said, nodding. Just then, the infirmarian made an appearance, which led to another iteration of the “trained in Salerno” story. He eyed me with some disfavor as I smeared honey over the stitches, but I wasn't sure whether he disapproved of my medical skill or my uncovered hair. Dunworthy distracted him by offering him a small bottle of poppy syrup and a few other medicines as thanks for the priory's hospitality, which sweetened his disposition.

After the infirmarian and Norreys left together, I rooted around the saddlebags until I found something soft to put against Colin's side. By now, his grogginess was easing a little, and we had no difficulty sitting him up to put on a bandage. As I was wrapping strips of linen over the soft pad, I asked Dunworthy, “Why did you say we were bound for London?”

“Norreys seemed honest enough, but we don't know who else he'll speak to, or how many friends Bloet has. The sooner we're away from here, the better, and it would be best not to have anyone following us.”

“I'm all right,” Colin said. “Just a bit dizzy.”

After studying him closely, I turned to Dunworthy. “He hasn't lost nearly so much blood as I'd feared at first. If we get some broth into him to replace the fluid he's lost, he should be able to ride at a slow pace.”

Dunworthy nodded. “I agree. You see to that, and I'll go to the market to buy some laces and a veil.”

“Don't fuss over the veil,” I said. “If need be, I'll wear my traveling hood until we're out in the country.”

Dunworthy left, and I saw to the business of repacking the saddlebags. By the time Dunworthy returned, a servant had brought us bowls of broth with some bread, soft cheese, and cups of new ale. Colin was still drowsy and mildly disoriented, and we had to remind him twice to keep eating. I was startled when he said, “So, we've still got time for Ashencote?”

“No,” I said, and realized I'd forgotten why we'd come in the first place. “It's not important now.”

“It is,” Dunworthy said, “and it's not far from the drop. We'll go, if Colin's doing well and we haven't lost the light by the time we get there.”

  


We left for the stables soon after eating. One of the servants had readied our horses, but Dunworthy quickly unsaddled his.

“What's happening?” Colin said. “Aren't we going?”

“Yes,” Dunworthy said, as I helped him tie his saddle to the one atop Colin's horse, taking care to secure the dangling stirrups from both saddles. “You're riding with me. I don't think you're alert enough to sit a horse by yourself.”

I'd expected Colin to argue, but all he said was, “Isn't that bad for the horse?”

“We haven't that far to go,” Dunworthy said, as I led his horse to a mounting block. “You first,” he said to Colin, offering him a hand.

Colin blenched but made no complaint as he mounted. “Is the horse going to let you do this?”

“If it won't, I'll be exchanging some very unscholarly words with Stables,” Dunworthy said. “Hold him steady,” he told me, and then swung up behind Colin. After he was settled, I mounted my own horse, took Colin's by the reins, and we were underway at last.

For all that had happened, it was scarcely midday, and I was glad we'd made such an early start that morning. We passed a few people slowly walking home from the fair, but there was no sign of any pursuit from Oxford. The road was quiet, and with my heavy cloak on, I found myself becoming drowsy in the warmth of the afternoon sun. As I'd expected, Colin had grown sleepy again in the absence of any activity and was dozing in Dunworthy's arms.

After riding for some time, we stopped to water the horses and check on Colin. His bandage was dry, but his pinched expression told me the poppy was wearing off. He saw Dunworthy take a small bottle and cup out of one of the saddlebags, and said, “I don't want any more of that stuff. It tastes horrible.”

“You can have an apple afterwards,” Dunworthy told him, pouring out a small dose.

Colin made a face, but took the cup. He looked at Dunworthy thoughtfully and said, “Would it truly have been all right if I'd done nothing? Wouldn't he have hurt you? He had a sword.”

“I have a sword, and know how to use it.”

“I've never seen you act like that.”

Dunworthy smiled. “Crude insults and bladed weapons are rarely the province of faculty meetings.”

“I'm not so sure about the insults,” I said, handing Colin an apple.

Colin smiled, but said, “Historians aren't supposed to draw attention to themselves.”

“From the moment Bloet took Kivrin's arm, there weren't any good choices,” Dunworthy said. “It would be uncharacteristic for a contemp not to be offended by someone manhandling a member of his household. The best I could hope for was to gain the support of the crowd. Social pressure was very important in this era.”

“You truly know how to use a sword?” Colin said doubtfully.

“Yes. I've had lessons, in real swordplay, not the silly stuff you see in vids. Actual sword-fighting is less stylized and far more effective.”

“I want lessons.”

“When you're older.”

That was more than Dunworthy had said in all the miles since leaving Oxford, and I found myself wondering how much he regretted allowing Colin to come with us. As we mounted up again, this time putting Colin and Dunworthy up on Colin's horse, I turned to him.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have pressured you to let Colin come.”

“Kivrin,” he said, sounding thoughtful, “I think perhaps that Colin had to come. The young man. Bloet. Was he...?”

“Sir Bloet?” I said. “Yes. Although he's obviously not a knight yet. I suppose his father sent him off to help the king fight the Scots, and that's how he got a knighthood.”

“Because of us,” Dunworthy said.

“Perhaps.”

“That was Sir Bloet?” Colin said. “You should have kicked him twice.”

  


The wind had picked up and shadows were lengthening as we reached the drop. “Go on?” I asked Dunworthy, and he and Colin both nodded. As we moved forward, I told myself _, It's just a village; you've seen Imeyne; you've seen Bloet; it's just a clump of buildings_. As much as I'd wanted to see Ashencote again back in 2058, it was the last thing I wanted to do now.

“Kivrin?” Dunworthy said, looking over at me. “If you're not ready—”

“It needs to be done,” I said, drawing my hood close, although the chill I felt was not from the wind.

“But not necessarily today.”

“Waiting won't make it easier,” I said.

“There,” Colin said, pointing ahead. “That's the bell tower.”

And it was.

As we drew near the church, the first thing I noticed were the graves, or rather, the relative lack of them. Less than half of the churchyard which had overflowed in 1348 had been put to use, and the only thing encroaching on the village green were a few goats. We rode slowly through the village and I felt as if I were riding in some sort of dream where the misty ghosts of 1348 were superimposed over the reality of 1310. There were fewer peasant huts, but most of them were in the same locations. Surely these weren't the same huts I'd once seen, as they didn't look sturdy enough to last a single winter.

No one seemed to be about. The lack of inhabitants brought back memories of a different deserted Ashencote and for a horrible moment I wondered whether we'd got the year completely wrong.

“They're at the fair,” Dunworthy said, as if sensing my thought.

“We never checked the year,” I said. “What if it's 1350? What if they're all dead?”

“If they were dead, there would be graves on the village green,” Colin said calmly. “I remember those.”

Of course. How could I have been so stupid? The row of huts ended sooner than I expected, and then we were back in the woods again, but not for long. The road here was lined with ash trees, and just ahead was the manor.

It didn't look the same, to my relief. The hall was the same, but the barn was different and a handful of outbuildings were missing. If I stepped into the hall, there wouldn't be a table propped on its side, set up as a barrier. I wouldn't see a rat perching unconcernedly on Agnes' little three-legged stool. It was just a place.

And then a cow lowed. Any rational thought I'd had about the manor fled. In my mind, it was the last day, and the cow kept demanding to be milked while I hastily gathered supplies for Scotland because we would need to be quick, quick, to outrun Death.

But I hadn't been quick enough. I could never have been quick enough, and as a historian, I should have known that, but—

A harried-looking servant came out of the kitchen and headed toward the byre. “All right, then, I'm coming. You'd think Avice could have—Oh.” She stopped in mid-complaint, startled by our presence, and gave us a quick curtsy and a wary glance. The cow lowed again, more insistently.

“We won't keep you from your work,” Dunworthy said, in his most reassuring tone. “We're looking for Skendgate, but I fear we've taken a wrong turning.”

“Not so wrong, sir,” she answered, looking relieved. “Ride back toward the church and then beyond it for a bit. There's a fork in the road just beyond a stand of holly trees. You want the right-hand turning.”

Dunworthy thanked her, and we turned to go. “Kivrin?” he said, as we followed the rutted track back to the village.

“I'm all right.” I found myself envying Colin, riding in the comforting circle of Dunworthy's arms, and then felt angry with myself for envying him. “I'd like to pause for a moment at the church.”

He nodded, and we rode on as I tried to recapture my train of thought. Something about historians knowing they couldn't outrun Death. I'd been about to think something else, something important...

We stopped at the church and I said, “I'd like to go in alone,” before Dunworthy could dismount. From nearby, I could smell the aroma of someone cooking something truly godawful. Likely, it was a peasant using dung for their fire. Apparently, the village wasn't as deserted as I'd thought.

I'm not sure what I expected to see in the church. Logically, I knew that Roche's body wouldn't lie here for many years yet, but the quiet emptiness of the church felt wrong somehow. “It should be bigger,” I whispered to myself. “Or darker, or scarier, or _something_. Something as huge as the Black Death should leave a mark for all time.”

For all time. That was another wisp of something I wanted, but I didn't know what to do with it. I knelt and prayed briefly, for this place, this village, but most of all for Roche. I prayed that the church would treat him kindly until it was his time to lie here.

It was nearly sunset, and past time for me to be going. As I turned to leave, I told myself, _It's done_ , although I knew it wasn't. Roche was waiting for me. Roche would always be waiting for me.

 _But he wouldn't know it_ , I thought, pausing at the door for one last look. Roche as a baby had had no idea he'd grow up to become Roche the priest, just as Roche the priest hadn't known he'd one day be Roche the corpse, a saint lying in state in a deserted village.

In the continuum, all of those Roches existed simultaneously, side by side with the years before his birth and after his death. That's why I'd felt the village should bear some mark of what had happened to it long before the Black Death came: in the continuum, the village was always dying.

But it was also being settled, and growing, and weathering years of good harvest and bad. Just as I'd weathered a bad harvest.

As an historian, I could visit all the days of Ashencote's life; remember all of them. It would be wrong to pretend the bad days had never happened, but it would be just as wrong to lose hold of all the good ones, in my grief. The continuum embraced the whole, and so should I.

I left the church and saw Dunworthy patiently waiting, just as he had these past few years. Even on the darkest days, when I'd been afraid I'd never be able to time-travel again, he'd believed I'd return to practical history. And yet, I thought, he wouldn't have been disappointed if I'd chosen differently.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asked, searching my face closely in the failing light.

“No,” I said, smiling up at him. “I'm ready to come back.”

 


End file.
